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Symon leans back against the comfortable cushion of Dagmar's side. Granted, it's not a particularly soft cushion, these mighty thews, but he seems content.
"It was really nice of the locals to hold that banquet," he remarks, "But I'm just as glad it's over. Sometimes I think that the few gregarious sluagh that exist in outside of the shadows start convincing folk that we like parties and goings on, and just need to be coaxed out." A touch sour to his tone, but it's mild.
"Maybe I should hold a gathering to plan more sordid slug deeds and restore our bad name, so that I won't be expected out in public any more."
A faint whispered huff of amusement shows that he is, at least mostly, joking.
"How much longer do you think your duties will keep you up here?" He asks Dagmar, not pressing, but curious.